Dakota Dream (6 page)

“Well, I must be on my way,” Dr. Harmon finally said after pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time. “This has been most enjoyable, Mrs. Norgaard. Thank you for your hospitality. How about if I check you over before I leave?”

“And I, too, must be going. Good day, Mrs. Norgaard.” Reverend Moen patted her hand. “This has been a real pleasure.”

“Thank you for coming.” Mrs. Norgaard let the men assist her to her feet and back to the edge of the bed. “Perhaps next time you come, you could bring your daughter, Mary.”

“I’ll do that. Clara, here, let me help you take these things downstairs.” He picked up the larger of the trays and waited while Clara added the bowls and cups to it. Together, they took the trays back to the kitchen.

“Do you need anything?” the reverend asked as he placed his tray on the kitchen table.

Clara shook her head. “No, wait, I mean yes. Do you know anyone who has a canary?”

“A canary?”

“Yes, for sale.” Clara set her tray down. “You see, it is so quiet here, not a sound, so I thought the bird would sing and make Mrs. Norgaard feel happier.”

“True.” Reverend Moen rubbed the bridge of his nose in the gesture that Clara already knew meant he was thinking. “I’ll ask Ingeborg.” He walked down the front stairs still chuckling about her wanting a yellow bird to sing.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Dr. Harmon said when Clara asked him about the canary. “Might be just what the doctor ordered—if he’d thought of it.” He shrugged into the coat Clara held for him. “Now don’t you worry so much about the house and spend your time with her. I’ll see you again in a day or so.”

Clara leaned against the door after they’d left. She could feel the silence settling back down on the house. The bell tinkled from upstairs.

The next morning she talked Mrs. Norgaard into a bath and hair washing. Each time Clara helped her charge, she asked about Mr. Norgaard and each time Mrs. Norgaard shared a bit more. And each time the tears flowed.

One night after she’d helped Mrs. Norgaard to bed, Clara sat on the edge of the mattress to say good night.

“Don’t go.” The old woman clutched the hand of the younger. The silence settled around them, close and comforting this time, as if in benediction.

“This is the hardest time,” Mrs. Norgaard spoke from the dimness. “When the lights are out and all my memories crowd in, piling on top of each other, pushing and shoving until I can’t sleep, can’t rest.” The silence reigned again. “And when I feel so guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“Yes, I should have been able to help him more. If only I’d made him stay home and go to bed when he first felt ill.” Clara waited. “And if I’d thrown out those awful, smelly cigars, maybe he wouldn’t have had a cough to start with.” Her voice floated on the stillness, like a leaf kissing the surface of a pond.

Clara stroked the papery hand that lay in hers.
Father,
she prayed while she waited for the voice to come again,
please bring healing to Mrs. Norgaard. Help her to give up the bad feelings. Help her to want to live
. The thoughts seemed to drift heavenward, like smoke rising from a chimney on a still, winter day.

“Einer insisted on going out to that farm with Dr. Harmon. So many people were sick that the well ones did what they could, chores and such. I was helping Mrs. Moen. She collected extra children and housed them until their parents could care for them again. Ah, me. Maybe I was the one who brought the sickness home.” Silence again. “We’ll never know.”

Clara could hear the tears begin to drown out the woman’s voice.

“But he was so sick. I was right here beside him. He’d been tossing and turning and finally settled down. I . . . I thought he was finally resting, so I dozed off myself. When I woke up . . .”

Clara squeezed her eyes closed, but the tears refused to be swallowed.

“When I woke . . . he was gone.” Deep sobs, the kind that come after being forced back too long, shuddered through her frame, shaking the bed.

Clara gathered the straining body into her arms and held her. What could she say, even if she could talk around the tears that rained down her own cheeks?

Mrs. Norgaard reached for the edge of the sheet to wipe her eyes. “I never—” she choked on the words, “I never said good-bye. He was gone and I never said good-bye. Did he know how much I loved him?”

Sobs interrupted her words, making them difficult to understand, but Clara murmured soothing noises, whispering the litany of love she’d learned at her mother’s knee.

Eventually, hiccups punctuated the silence, and Clara placed a handkerchief in Mrs. Norgaard’s hand. After blowing her nose, the now-spent woman lay back on her pillows. She put her hand back in Clara’s. “I’m sorry to get you so wet.”

“I’ll dry.”

“Do you think God will forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For being so angry at Him for taking my Einer.” She paused. “For wanting to die.”

“All you have to do is ask. Mor says He forgives even before we ask, that’s what sending His Son to die for us meant. Forgiveness and love that never dies.”

“Your mother is a wise woman.” Mrs. Norgaard blew her nose again. Her sigh snagged on a leftover sob.

Clara could feel the yawn that caught Mrs. Norgaard and then sneaked up on Clara. She covered her mouth with her hand but still felt the hinges in her jaw creak with the strain.

“Thank you, my dear.” Mrs. Norgaard breathed deeply and patted Clara’s hand. “You go on to bed now; I’ll be just fine.” She yawned again. “In fact, I’m almost asleep already.”

“I can sit here for a while. There’s no hurry.”

Clara was about to rise from the bed, thinking her charge almost asleep, when Mrs. Norgaard said with a catch in her voice, “Would you . . . do you know the Twenty-third Psalm?”

“Ja, I do. We memorized that in Sunday school when we were small.”

“Would you say it for me?”

Clara closed her eyes and thought of the shepherd with his flock.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters . . .” Her voice caught in the part about the valley but grew stronger again as she came to, “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

“Amen.”

“Ja, Amen.” Clara nodded. When she rose a few minutes later, Mrs. Norgaard was breathing the soft and even rhythm of healing sleep.

“Thank You, thank You, thank You.” Gratitude poured forth as Clara blew out the lamps and undressed for bed. Even while her mind sang the praises, her body felt like a garment with all the starch washed out. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.

When Clara walked into Mrs. Norgaard’s room with the coffee tray in the morning, Mrs. Norgaard was sitting up against her pillows.

“I want you to go over to Reverend Moen’s this morning and ask him to come here.” Even her voice was stronger. “Tell him I’m ready now.”

Whatever for?
Clara wondered, but she only nodded, a smile tickling the corners of her mouth.

She had a feeling this was more like the real Mrs. Norgaard. The doorbell rang before Clara could finish her duties and get out the door. She answered the chimes, still wiping her hands on her apron.

“Good morning, Clara.” Doc Harmon tipped his hat with one hand, the other carrying his black leather bag. “How is our patient this morning?”

“Better, I think.” Clara stepped back and motioned him in. “She wants me to go for Reverend Moen.”

“Whatever for?” Doc laid his hat on the hall table and brushed a hand over his steel gray hair.

Clara shrugged. “Maybe if you ask her, she’ll tell you.”

“And maybe she won’t. The won’t is much more likely.” Doc started up the stairs. “Do you by any chance have the coffee hot? I’ve been out delivering a baby north of town and I could use a pick-me-up.”

“Ja, I do. There’s bread and some cheese if you’d like.” She waited with her hand on the carved ball of the walnut newel post.

“Fine. And after you’ve brought it up, you can run over to the reverend’s. I’ll stay and visit for a few minutes.”

Clara did as asked and, within a few minutes, darted out the front door. It was the first time she’d been out since Reverend Moen brought her here. She drew in a deep breath of air redolent of burning leaves and crisp fall weather. As she kicked her way through the leaves blanketing the ground she looked up through the naked tree branches stretching to the lemony sun in the watery blue sky. If the weather patterns were the same here as in Norway, it felt like a storm hovering on the horizon.

She turned to the left and walked briskly down the packed dirt street. She passed the houses, playing the
I wonder who lives there
game
that she and Nora used to play on their way to school. But in Norway it was
I wonder what they’re doing there
, since they knew all the inhabitants of their small village.

It was different here. Clara refused to allow the worm of homesickness to dig its way into her beautiful day. She thought back to the night before instead. “The Lord is my shepherd . . . ,” she sang the song, the ancient words set to a tune they’d learned in Sunday school. Why was it she always felt better when she began singing? How much easier it was to remember Bible verses when they’d been set to music.

She sang her way up a cross street and down the main street until she saw the white picket fence of the Moen home. When she knocked on the door, the reverend himself answered it, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Clara, how wonderful to see you. Come in, come in.” He stepped back, opening the door wide in welcome.

“What brings you to our house? Ingeborg, we’ve company.” Clara stopped inside the door. “I can’t stay but a minute. Dr. Harmon is with Mrs. Norgaard so I could do what she asked.”

“And what is that?”

“She said for you to come now, she was . . . is ready.” Clara recited the words, hoping the man in front of her would understand the meaning.

“That’s all?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with one finger, his right hand tucked under his left elbow.

Clara nodded.

“Oh, I’m so glad you are here. Sit down, sit down. John, you haven’t taken her coat yet. What is this world coming to?” Ingeborg whirled down the last of the stairs and enveloped Clara in a hug that left no doubt as to her joy. She leaned back and studied the younger woman’s face. “You look like caring for Mrs. Norgaard is agreeing with you.”

“Ja, it is. Such a beautiful place.” Clara patted Grace on the head and squatted down to say hello to little James. “But I must get back.”

“The coffee will be ready in a minute.”

“Another time,
mange takk.
Reverend, you will be coming?”

Ingeborg looked from one to the other, her eyes bright and dimples ready to leap into view with the least encouragement. “Is Mrs. Norgaard feeling up to visitors?”

“She asked for Reverend Moen.”

“She isn’t worse, is she?” The dimples dove into hiding.

“
Nei, nei.
I think she’s better.”

Reverend Moen rolled down his sleeves preparatory to putting on his coat even as they talked. “I shouldn’t be long.” He removed his hat from the hall stand and, putting it on, went out the door, only to return. “Would you rather stay a few minutes to visit or walk with me?”

“Oh, stay,” Ingeborg pleaded.

Clara felt like a length of cloth being pulled at both ends. Duty won over and she smiled her apology. “Another time. Perhaps you and the children could come to call soon. That house is so silent. It needs the sound of children laughing.”

“We will.” Ingeborg patted Clara’s arm. “I’m happy that you like it there. I’m sure Mrs. Hanson is grateful she needn’t worry about her charge.”

“
Farvel,”
Clara said as she waved goodbye from the steps. She trotted after Reverend Moen, who waited for her at the gate. Halfway down the walk, Clara spun around and darted back to the porch. “Do you know anyone who might have a canary for sale? I think the bird s song would cheer Mrs. Norgaard up. And it would make some music in that still house.”

Ingeborg shook her head, her brow wrinkling in thought. “Not now, but I’ll ask around. That’s a wonderful idea.
Farvel
.” She stood in the doorway, waving until they were up the street.

Reverend Moen set a brisk pace and Clara found herself trotting to keep up with his long strides. When they arrived back at the Norgaard place, they met Dr. Harmon just coming down the stairs.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, my dear, but keep it up, whatever it is.” He shrugged into his coat and picked up his hat. I’ll check back in a couple of days. Now, Reverend, don’t go messing with my patient.”

Clara could tell he was playing by the twinkle in his eye. “She’s on the mend so you can’t have her yet,” the doctor teased.

“And I’m sure you think your medicine did the trick?” Reverend Moen tried to look serious and failed utterly.

“What else?” The doctor chuckled as he strode out the door, waving, one hand behind him.

“You go on up,” Reverend Moen said. Clara took his coat at the same time she heard the summoning bell from upstairs.

“I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his coat and slipped out the door, hitting the ground running. He turned and jogged backwards. “Don’t worry,” he called back. “It’s good news.”

Clara shook her head as she climbed the stairs. What a strange day this was turning out to be.

“Just put the tray over there.” Mrs. Norgaard pointed to the table in front of the windows. “We’ll wait for Reverend Moen and serve then. Do you think you could brush my hair before he gets back?”

Clara set the tray down and turned to find Mrs. Norgaard sitting on the edge of her bed, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her robe. Clara paused to see what her patient would do next. Mrs. Norgaard belted and tied the sash then looked up.

“Could you please help me to the chair? I know it’s easier for you when I’m there.” She took Clara’s arm and raised herself to her feet. Clara waited while Mrs. Norgaard swayed a bit and then steadied herself. “I’m weak as a kitten.” The tone was colored in exasperation.

Clara felt like singing as she brushed the long, gray tresses. What could have brought on the change? Their talk last night? The tears? Her prayers? Probably a combination of all three but whatever—Clara gave God all the glory. Her whispers of “Thank You, thank You” played counterpoint to the melody.

When Reverend Moen returned a few minutes later, he carried a small leather case along with his Bible. Reverently, he removed an embroidered stole and placed it around his neck. Then he set out his communion supplies.

So that’s what she was ready for.
Clara tucked the last pin in the coil of hair on the back of Mrs. Norgaard’s head.

“I’d like the chairs over by the window, if you please.” Mrs. Norgaard looked up at Clara. “Thank you, my dear. That felt wonderful. I believe you have the gift of healing in those hands of yours.”

Clara held her hands out in front of her, turning them over and back. Could that be? They looked just like the hands she’d had all her life. No different. She shook her head.

“Here, let me help you while Reverend Moen moves the chairs.” After seating Mrs. Norgaard, Clara turned to leave the room.

“No, please stay. I’ll feel more like we’re in church if it isn’t just me.” Mrs. Norgaard clutched Clara’s hand.

Clara nodded.

But I’m not prepared,
she thought.
I haven’t time to review my sins. When was the last time I received communion? So long ago.
Clara took one of the chairs and folded her hands in her lap. She breathed deeply, letting all the air out till her shoulders slumped. She closed her eyes.

Reverend Moen began reading. “From chapter one of First John: ‘That which was from the beginning . . . God is light and in him is no darkness . . . But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light . . . If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves . . . If we confess our sin, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ Let us be quiet now and confess those sins that stand between us and Him.”

Clara thought back over the last weeks.
I confess that I doubted You,
she thought
. I know I have not always come to You first but tried to do things on my own. I doubted that You have a plan for my life and I resented not meeting the man in my picture.
She continued thinking about the things she had done wrong.
Father, forgive me,
she prayed.
I don’t want anything to stand between us.

Reverend Moen flipped to Matthew, chapter twenty-six, in his Bible and began again, this time with the Last Supper.

At Jesus’ words, Clara could feel the tears clogging the back of her throat. “This is my body . . . this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.” When she had finished the communion, she wiped the flowing tears away with the corner of her apron.

Mrs. Norgaard reached over and borrowed the other corner. She sniffed and wiped her tears again with the backs of her fingers. The sigh seemed to come from the depths of a soul released from bondage and now ready to walk in the fullness of God’s light and freedom.

“Now remember those words, He not only forgives but cleanses us.” Reverend Moen closed his Bible and made the sign of the cross. “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you His peace. Amen.”

“Amen.” The two women chimed together.

A chorus of angel choirs could not have been richer than the quiet that filled the room and made its home in her heart. Clara recognized peace when she felt it.

Time passed but no one disturbed it until Mrs. Norgaard sighed deeply and raised her head. “Thank you, Reverend Moen. I believe I can go on now. I know that Einer is with our Father and I will be, too, one day, but I guess that day hasn’t come yet. Not for me anyway.”

She reached over and took Clara’s hand. “So we’ll just have to get me well again. Right?”

Clara nodded. She covered Mrs. Norgaard’s hand with her own. “God willing.”

“Oh, I think
He’s
been willing all along. It’s this stubborn old woman who wanted to go the other way.”

After Clara re-warmed the coffee and served, she settled Mrs. Norgaard down for a nap and walked Reverend Moen to the door. “Thank you for a beautiful service.”

“All I did was read God’s Word. We forget how wonderful and powerful it is, especially when read aloud. As told in Matthew, chapter eighteen, He meant it when He said, ‘For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.’”

Clara leaned her cheek against the edge of the open door. “I felt it . . . His presence . . . I mean. I feel like laughing and crying, both at the same time.” She wiped away a tear with her fingertip. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re most welcome. I felt and feel the same. These moments make all my days worthwhile.” He placed his brown felt hat squarely on his head. “God bless.”

Clara felt the “God bless” for the rest of the day and through the evening. She felt it when she gave Mrs. Norgaard a back rub.

“Tell me how you came to this country,” Mrs. Norgaard asked when she was settled against her pillows again.

Clara leaned back against the chair. As she related the story of the stained letter and the picture of the curly haired man, she could feel a difference. She didn’t resent God for “messing things up” as she’d thought before.

“I had to confess being angry today because I thought God wasn’t playing fair. I thought I understood He was bringing me to America to be a wife—right away. Even though I didn’t know the man, I thought God would make it all right.”

“And He didn’t?”

“I don’t know. No one seems to recognize the picture. No one has come forward to say, ‘Where’s my wife, the one I bought a ticket for and who never showed up.’” Clara leaned her head back against the frame. “But after today, it isn’t so important.”

“Well, I shall always be grateful He brought you here, however He did it.” Mrs. Norgaard folded her hands across her chest. “I know most of the people around here. Why don’t you bring the picture here and show it to me?”

Clara thought about the suggestion. “Would you mind if we waited until morning when the light is better?”

“That would be fine.” The quiet settled back. “Would you recite the Twenty-third Psalm again? That is such a comfort.” The words fell into the quiet of the room and the peace of their hearts, spreading like ripples on a pond.

When Clara fell into bed, she could only whisper, “Thank You,
mange takk
.”

She woke to a day filled with the brightness of sun glinting off frost. It glittered on the trees and the frost fronds painted on the edges of the windows.

After breakfast she took her picture in to Mrs. Norgaard. Clara studied the older woman’s face as she studied the picture. Clara saw the jaw clench and the cords stand out in Mrs. Norgaard’s birdlike neck.

“Clara, please go over to the blacksmith’s and bring Dag back with you. I want to talk with him.”